Stuck in Reality
by chasingdragondreams
Summary: She's not sure what "reality" of hers is real or not, because the one with the Tomas, Ekats, Lucians and Janus seems far fetched enough without the whole Vesper business. But then this one can't be real - because Kabras don't cry. (Madness and Insanity Contest entry, Amy/Ian)


**A/N: Hi, I'm rhetorically yours; pleased to make your acquaintance For those of those who know me, my name is Ivy *waves cheerily*. **

**This is for Gone's Madness and Insanity contest, and I chose number 2, getting schizophrenia for my disorder, and the character Amy Cahill. **

**Here's Gone's description of my prompt: A schizophrenic character has lost his grip on reality, and can no longer tell the difference between what is real and what is not. These constant hallucinations cause the schizophrenic to appear erratic, chaotic, and unpredictable to others.**

**Ooh. Sounds riveting XD**

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_"A freak of nature, stuck in reality/  
I don't fit the picture; I'm not what you want me to be."_

_- Strange, Tokio Hotel from the 2010 Alice In Wonderland soundtrack, "Almost Alice"  
_

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Amy POV

My throat feels dry, scratchy, _on fire_. It is like a parched person in the middle of nowhere, it is like someone has bottled up the ocean, and forgotten to put it back.

As my eyes crack open, each individual eyelash detaching itself from my pale skin, I see something I haven't seen in a while: butterflies; wildly flapping, wonderfully coloured, _butterflies_.

They alight on the walls, wings gently fluttering as they flit from surface to surface, reminding me of the hair-clips Jonah gave to Sinead right before.. I can't seem to recall the occasion, or if this is just another figment of my imagination.

I think hard, wracking my sluggish mind for memories. As if apologetic for betraying my sense of real/imaginary, an image appears in my head: a flash of dark blue, butterflies and reddish-orange (her hair was never tainted with a hint of brown, unlike mine) hair flowing off one shoulder to the side as a beautiful girl smiled - not smirked, or snarked, but _smiled_.

I remember I was in a dress - a white one, I think, and flowers - yes, I'm quite sure there were flowers. Maybe it's a distorted memory of me at a Homecoming Dance, or the Winter Ball, or maybe somebody's wedding I attended years ago. Maybe I can close my eyes because I'm in my dream-world, where dreams come true and fairy tales have happy endings, and parents don't die before you do.

Or is this real, too?

I'm not really sure which Amy is real, and I have dozens of me's to choose from. Perhaps the me in reality is a lawyer, or perhaps the one that's real is the kindly old college professor who gives you stale macaroons and deviates into sweet little life-lessons. I'm pretty sure the 'reality' me isn't the one with the Madrigals, the Janus and the Ekats (how far-fetched is that?), but I'm kind of sure about my teenage years.

I know my parents died, and my best friend, betrayed me, and I became the leader of a secret organization dedicated to world peace (oh wait, that's not the reality one, is it?) and I have a brother named Dan, but that's where the yarn starts to fray.

In one reality, there's this dorky guy named Evan. I dream about him a lot, but I can't remember anything about this reality, except that he likes computers and maybe I'm his girlfriend. There are too many people to remember in my reality, except in all of them, my best friend betrayed me, but I can't remember which.

Thinking about what's real and what's make-believe starts fraying the threads of my realities once again, and I drift back into the most prominent one: the far-fetched one about the Madrigals, Lucians and Vespers. I can't help but giggle at the obvious logic flaws in this world, because all the people I imagined up are pretty messed up.

The butterflies leave gold dust everywhere, coating the room in an ethereal sparkle. The _Sinead__-voice_ in my head (ugh, even when she's gone, she's still annoying me with her perfectionism) reminds me that if I don't know if my "pretty things" are deadly, hiding barbed poison to kill me slowly from the insides.

Like her.

I repeat the thought to Ian/Evan/Jake/Kurt, whose amber/green/blue/soft brown gaze wavers for a moment before sliding a tray of hospital food onto my lap. He doesn't answer my questions either about the strange appearance of the butterflies, nor does any expression ever cross his face when I insist, loudly, that there is a _plethora of freaking butterflies_ in my hospital room.

He simply stares ahead of me, not avoiding my gaze and not denying that the butterflies even exist. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his strangely messy black hair, and I'm left wondering, _what the heck is really going on today_?

"Have a nice lunch," he says forcefully, jaw gritted and his fingers are no doubt clenched at his sides, where I can't see them. as if he would rather be away with some richer, smarter, prettier girl (in other words: not me). But there's a strange sadness in his eyes, like he shan't - he won't - he just_ can't_ - goodbye quietly.

I hear the quiet click of the lock, and wonder why he feels the need to restrain me. But then I realize - it's not to keep people out, more than it's to keep me in. To stop me from touching, seeing, feeling what's on the other side of this door.

Still, I can't help but hear the quiet sobs of frustration as someone breaks down on the other side of the door.

"She doesn't remember a thing, Daniel!" yells someone in a British accent (Ian Kabra, since he's the only British boy out of all my realities), voice going quiet at the end. "Not a single bloody thing."

Something heavy hits a wall again, and I hear the sympathetic "ooh" from another voice behind the door.

"It's just-" he starts, then I hear the sound of wetness enter his throat. "She didn't even remember... our marriage."

I'm subjected to something I never want to hear ever again - the sound of him crying, horrible, wracking noises that even though I don't really remember much about this man, reality or hospital - something tells me that this is _wrong._

And for a moment, I regain my conscious train of thought before slipping back into the drowning pool again.

This reality can't be real, because I'm not used to Kabras falling apart.


End file.
